


The Story of My Life

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [5]
Category: Sherlock TV
Genre: Cake, M/M, balletlock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26122804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a ballet dancer at the end of his career. He meets a soldier no longer needed by the military.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 40
Kudos: 131





	The Story of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to use one of my favourite tropes this time: Balletlock. This is a slightly different take on the theme, which I hope you will enjoy. Let me know!
> 
> During these sad and scary times, writing these stories is one of the things that keeps me going, so I appreciate those of you who read them.

It all began with _The Nutcracker,_ of course. A cliche. A six-year-old and already socially awkward boy performing as Mouse #1on the slightly uneven stage at the leisure centre. There were five performances in the fortnight leading up to Christmas and by the time we reached the last curtain call, I knew that dance would be my life.

And so it has been. Until tonight.

It was no surprise that they had wanted to hold a reception or some such thing in my honour after this last performance. I rejected the idea, of course, instead simply packing up my battered old duffel and leaving the Royal Opera House just as on any other night. My escape plan was simple. I told the Company that my family wanted to spend time with me and the family that the Company wanted to honour me.

After suffering through the fewest farewells possible, I made my way through the usual drunken Saturday night crowds in Covent Garden, bypassing the tube station to avoid the worst of it, and walked instead to Leicester Square, hoping that the theatre goers were at least a bit more sober.

+

Five years after that #1 Mouse fell in love with ballet, I was at the leisure centre again, dancing the Prince this time. Luckily I was tall for my age. That Nutcracker was my last and also my last performance on the dreadful stage. In the New Year, I was headed to the Royal Ballet School.

Mummy was proud. I was confident, rather foolishly so, because the audiences at the leisure centre were always so impressed and the instructor, Miss Haywood, had fawned over me for years. Big fish, small pond. That was about to change.

Nevertheless, things went well in my first term and I settled in.

*

I was at the underground station, on my way back to White Lodge in Richmond, when the murder happened.

It had been my first weekend at home since the term started; the occasion was my odious brother Mycroft’s birthday. I objected to the visit on principle, but Mummy insisted. If nothing else, the occasion gave me the opportunity to make several rude remarks about cake. But I was glad to be returning to school, although my social skills had not much improved from when I was six. At least, the Royal Ballet School was filled with other obsessives, which provided cover for a genuine freak like me. [The village primary school had provided no such cover.] Daddy had dropped me at the station after I convinced Mummy I could certainly get to Richmond on my own.

It was Sunday evening and there were very few people waiting for the train.

I was standing at the very end of the platform, thinking about the first audition coming up at the school. It was only for a recital intended to impress parents and some patrons. But it might catch the eye of someone important. I was an ambitious eleven-year-old. Anyway, I was doing a little discreet footwork on the platform and ignoring the music from someone’s phone.

The man in the rather horrid brown suit [even at eleven I understood the innate wrongness of a brown suit] was standing closest to me, almost over the yellow line. Living dangerously. I executed a very nice _balancé_ , finishing just as the train appeared. At that same moment, a man in a lime green hoodie appeared from behind a pillar and suddenly pushed Brown Suit onto the tracks, just as the train arrived. No one but me seemed to notice at first, then a nun began to scream.

Everyone said it was a suicide, even the nun, who had only caught the moment he landed on the tracks. I tried to tell the transit police what had actually happened, but no one took me seriously. The idiot in charge patted me on the head [metaphorically] and seemed inclined to offer me a lolly.

I was very late getting back to White Lodge, but the policeman who drove me explained everything to the house master and all was well.

It was my first murder and while it took nothing at all on my part to ‘solve’ it, I decided that a really decent crime might be worth my interest. In my free time, I started searching them out in the newspapers and sending anonymous tips to Scotland Yard.

Mycroft collected stamps and I solved crimes. Everyone needs a hobby.

The audition went flawlessly and then my performance in the recital earned me a chance to dance at Covent Garden. Only as a part of the crowd at the wedding in _Mayerling_ but still. I knew that I would be back.

+

Once I was on the tube from Leicester Square [where the drunk quotient was sadly still rather high] I really had no idea where to go. The idea of returning to my flat held little appeal, because I knew myself well-enough to know I would brood. So I got off the train at South Kensington and walked to an all-night coffee shop I sometimes patronised when sleep evaded me.

I chose a booth by the window, so that I could look out at the traffic on Cromwell Road. When the bored young man with green hair and a piercing on his upper lip wandered over, I ordered a pot of Darjeeling and a slice of Victoria Sponge. Cake as my first act of rebellion against the regime of a _premier danseur_ which had ruled over every aspect of my life since I was eleven. Now I was thirty-seven and it no longer mattered. Many people had commented that it was a good thing I had managed to carry on for two years beyond the average age of retirement for a male dancer and possibly they were correct. Some had even suggested that I could linger on for another season or two, but I rejected that. A good guest knows when to leave, Mummy always said.

Two rather loud idiots in football jerseys came in and got coffees to take away. When they had departed, the silence returned and that was good.

Slowly and carefully, I ate the Victoria Sponge. Without telling myself the calorie count in each bite.

+

My first big role at the Royal Ballet happened when I was twenty.

I danced the role of Albrecht in _Giselle._

The reviews were excellent. Mummy and Daddy were proud.

I was pleased, but at the same time preoccupied with trying to understand how what I had thought was a grand romance turned out to have been, at best, a one-sided infatuation. Victor had not been kind when he left; neither had he been original in the insults he tossed at me before going. Mycroft turned up soon after to lecture me, of course. To tell me that the only thing that mattered was my work. “Ballet is a jealous mistress,” he said. “There is no room for anything else.”

Much as I hated to agree with him, Mycroft was probably right.

Well, at least there was still my hobby. That very night, I sent a letter to Scotland Yard telling them that if they found a green ladder, the brother was the killer. Two days later I saw in the paper that the brother had been arrested. All the articles went into the scrapbook I had begun. Mummy kept several about my dance career. This one was mine alone.

*

I became a star dancing in _Song of a Wayfarer._

The music by Mahler suited me; even more so did the role of a romantic youth raging in despair. It was Fate who soothed that boy; _my_ comfort lay in the applause, the cheers, the roses cast upon the stage. My parents were there opening night and Daddy wept a bit. Afterwards, Mycroft gave me a ride home in his shiny black government car. Once there, I sat alone in my flat, drinking a cup of tea.

After reading his name in the newspaper, I sent my next solution to a specific detective for the first time. Lestrade. When it was announced that the Hampstead Rapist had been captured, I saw Lestrade on the telly, making the announcement. He seemed not completely useless. I thought that he might mention an anonymous tip from a public spirited citizen, but he did not.

The next evening I was back at Covent Garden, portraying the raging youth once again.

+

It felt like a bit of madness when I waved the green-haired boy over and ordered more tea and another slice of Victorian Sponge. I rather expected one of Mycroft’s minions to appear out of the darkness to reprimand me for violating the rules. To amuse myself, I imagined the response I might give. Something to do with Mycroft and cake.

I had just taken my first bite when the door opened again.

It was not a black-suited toady who came in, though.

Instead, I saw a very ordinary man in an ugly porridge-coloured jumper, wrinkled trousers and a well-worn jacket. He had a boring government-issued cane and a limp. The most interesting things about him were that his nose was bleeding and there was a painful-looking scrape across his cheek. He sat down heavily in the booth across from mine and grabbed several paper serviettes from the shiny metal holder, pressing them to his nose.

“Are you all right?” I asked, because sometimes I remembered my early lessons in good manners.

“Fine,” he said gruffly. “They took my wallet, the bastards. Couple of arseholes in Man U shirts.”

Ah. I reached into my duffel and took out the burner mobile I only used to send my anonymous tips to Lestrade and sent a text describing the two coffee-drinking muggers.

The boy finally wandered over.

The newcomer reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “Enough for a coffee?” he asked.

The boy only nodded and went to fetch it.

Once, years ago, I danced the lead in _A Soldier’s Tale_. Music by Stravinsky. Someone arranged a special matinee for real soldiers and the company was expected to attend a reception afterwards. Since socialising bores me, I used it as an opportunity to learn, talking to a dozen or so of them. While I could not have explained it, I saw something in this man that brought everything I had learned to this moment.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I asked him.

It took a beat or two for him to understand what I had said, because he was busy changing the serviettes on his nose. The bleeding was slowing. Then he looked at me. “Afghanistan. But how did you—?”

His coffee was set in front of him. We sat in silence for several moments.

Finally, I picked up my plate and went to his table. “I should not have ordered this second slice,” I said. “Won’t you have it?”

The bleeding had stopped from his nose. He hesitated, then picked up the clean fork at his place. “Thank you. Won’t you join me?”

It seemed a night to break all the rules. I fetched my tea and then sat down across from him. “Your hair. The way you moved. The tan lines. Soldier.”

He was thoughtfully eating the cake. “Well, that is impressive. Really amazing, actually. And yesterday, you would have been right.”

I raised a brow at him. His eyes looked empty and older than his face. But there was a hidden strength there.

He set the fork down and reached into his pocket, taking out an envelope that was clearly from the government. “Her Majesty’s forces no longer have need of me. So now I am an ex-soldier.”

My annoying brother does not hold with coincidences, believing that the universe is rarely so lazy. I wondered what he would have made of this. I almost smiled. “As it happens, I am, as of tonight an ex-ballet dancer. So we are two of a kind. Kindred souls cast upon the waves.” So many years in ballet can make one excessively poetic; it balances the brutal reality of the physical world in which we work.

He returned to the sponge. “They found you no longer necessary?”

“I have retired.”

He looked skeptical. “You’re too young to retire.”

“Not for a ballet dancer.” I could have offered to show him my feet, but even I recognised that would be inappropriate.

Again, we were quiet.

His hair was interesting. Blond and brown and a hint of silver hiding amongst the strands. More interesting was the question of why I was spending time looking at his hair.

For a brief period, when I was very young, I wanted to be a pirate. Mycroft still makes a joke of it. The closest I ever came to that goal was dancing the lead in _Le Corsaire_ which was based on a poem by Byron. In truth, the closest I have ever come to many things in life is dancing them on stage. It was enough, for the most part. But tonight I found this stranger’s hair interesting.

“What will you do now that the forces no longer want you?” It occurred to me, even as I spoke, that maybe the question was too blunt. Rude, in fact.

But he only shrugged. “I am also a doctor.” Then he held up a hand that trembled just a bit. Almost as if it were being moved by a faint breeze. “Although I doubt the operating theatre will have need of me either.” He finished the sponge. “Thank you. That was lovely. What will you do now? Teach?”

I shuddered at the thought. Then I hesitated for just a moment. No one knew my secret, but suddenly I wanted _him_ to know. “I intend to solve crimes for the idiots at Scotland Yard.”

“Really? Do they have a lot of former ballet dancers on the force?” He sounded amused.

“I have no idea,” I replied sharply. “I will not be ‘on the force.’ They will come to me when they are out of their depth, which is always.” I straightened my shoulders a bit, wondering if he would make a joke of it all. It would hurt if he did. “I am a consulting detective,” I said proudly. “The only one in the world.”

He did not sneer or make some nasty remark.“Well, that sounds very interesting,” he said, instead.

Most ballets are, at their heart, about romance.

_Romeo & Juliet_

_Swan Lake_

_Coppelia_

_La Sylphide_

I have danced them all. So I am no stranger to the idea of romance.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I said, perhaps belatedly.

He smiled. “John Watson.”

We shook hands across the table.

Many of the love affairs in ballet end in tragedy and death, but that doesn’t seem to put people off. Many of the cases I have solved started in romance and ended in tragedy and death. Life imitates art.

“Will you ever dance again?” John asked, sounding genuinely curious.

I considered my answer. “Perhaps there will be a case where it will be required.”

I ordered more tea for myself and another coffee for John, while telling him about some of the cases I had solved. He seemed impressed. I mentioned that since I was now retired, I intended to drop my anonymity and make myself known to Lestrade. He would certainly see the sense in letting me visit crime scenes and handle the evidence. I would be able to solve so many more cases that way.

In addition, John would certainly see the sense in joining me. I hoped. It would be handy to have a doctor around. “Would you like to come to my flat and see my scrapbook?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, then gave a bark of laughter. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

I didn’t know why he laughed, but that was all right, because he did come with me and we spent the rest of the night talking.

+

My last performance was in Kenneth Tindall’s _Casanova._

Yes, I see the irony. Some of the reviewers praised the sex over the plot. It was a lush, erotic production, showing how Casanova went from taking holy orders to his life of fornication. My performance was praised and I do not think it was entirely because they all knew it was the last.

Mummy said the ladies of her WI were equally scandalised and delighted.

I could see Mycroft holding back several pointed remarks regarding me and sex.

But at the end, the audience roared and the stage was covered in roses. I bowed and waved and even smiled. Then I packed my duffel for the last time and left the Opera House. 

As I walked away, I wondered if Casanova had ever been in love.

+

I did, in fact, dance again, but not for a case.

One year and two months after that meeting in the coffee shop, I danced on the roof of 221 Baker Street. I lit the candles and poured the champagne and then I danced Prince Desire’s solo from Act Three of The Sleeping Beauty. The performance was for an audience of only one and it was far from perfect. [I blame the improvised surface.] Still, I consider it my best performance ever.

When the last note of Tchaikovsky’s music had faded from my phone, I knelt before John and asked him to marry me.

*

There is a moment when you dance, an instant in which you are suspended in time. It occurs during that complete silence between the final movement of your body and when the audience responds. It is the perfect moment, filled with possibility and terror. If you died in that brief interlude, it would seem right and good.

But then would come the applause, the cheers, the damned roses. And you would sigh in relief that it was not over quite yet.

John grinned and accused me of being a romantic.

“I am a dancer,” I said. “And a man who solves mysteries. Of course I am a romantic.”

Then he kissed me and said yes.

**

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Story of My Life by Giacomo Casanova


End file.
